


A-Hunting We Will Go

by boy-thighs (sop)



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sop/pseuds/boy-thighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethos is awkward. Praxis is into that. Because he is also awkward. And this is how they move past "Hello, my name is____."</p><p>for the <a href="http://starfighterkinkmeme.tumblr.com/">starfighterkinkmeme</a> prompt: “Praxis/Ethos, any rating. We need moar of this please :3”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A-Hunting We Will Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> this is like 99% fluff. it's sickening.

“Ah, so…” Praxis scratches the back of his head, behind the band of his eyepatch. This is the twenty-fifth time. He’s probably nervous. Or annoyed. But Ethos wouldn’t know. They’ve barely gotten past  _hello, my name is ____ and you are?_  It’s a work in progress. Much like their compatibility. Except one of them (not naming names) hasn’t been putting in the same amount of effort. “What exactly do you need me to do?” Praxis asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  
  
He’s lost, clueless, so insanely out of his element he might as well be floundering. Ethos takes pity and passes him the wrench. “Um…you could tighten some of these bolts?” Ethos points toward the loose panel on the  _Tiberius_  above both their heads. Praxis stares dumbly.  
  
He’d been working here. Alone. Since yesterday. Until Praxis stopped by three minutes ago wearing perhaps the guiltiest, saddest, kicked-puppy-dog expression Ethos had ever seen.  
  
Ethos doesn’t like dogs.  
  
He actually prefers cats. Cats don’t aggravate his over-sensitive allergies.  
  
All that fur shedding constantly, and the dander gets  _everywhere_.  
  
He had a friend back at the academy who owned a golden retriever. She was humongous, almost as tall as him whenever she stood up on two hind legs to lick his face. Ethos hated that dog. Not because she was mean or smelled or overly aggressive. She was pretty calm, actually. It definitely wasn’t that. He hated her because she always made him feel small, insignificant, just one tail wag away from landing flat on his back. In hindsight, the poor thing was probably part wolfhound. Which explains why Ethos always felt like Contessa secretly wanted to gobble him up, or turn him into a human-sized chew toy, arms and legs a poor substitute for a large, juicy bone.  
  
Ethos has that same feeling around Praxis sometimes, too.  
  
Except Praxis would probably spit him back out.  
  
He's a pretty poor substitute for Abel, too.  
  
Praxis absentmindedly chews his bottom lip in thought, as if perplexed by this strange Earth invention called a wrench and how one might use it. “So, you just want me to…tighten the bolts?” he repeats. Slowly, carefully, using more syllables than Ethos can count on one hand, a single word longer than his previous sentence. This is the lengthiest conversation they’ve had in the past two months. Progress.  
  
Ethos smiles a very anxious, worried smile. The kind he wore whenever Contessa reared back, ready to lunge. Praxis tilts his head, invisible ears folding. Ethos trembles. “Y-yeah! Just, you know, push the panel back into place and make sure it doesn’t fall off. I’m going to open a few more to check the wires. So just…yeah…”  
  
An awkward silence.  
  
Then, three seconds later—  
  
“Okay.”  
  
That’s how long it takes for Praxis to reply.  
  
Coincidentally, the same amount of time it takes for Ethos to restart his breathing.  
  
Their teamwork is sloppy and terribly uncoordinated, per usual. Praxis performs his given task as instructed, but without any sort of finesse, screwing the bolts back into place lopsidedly so that the whole panel is off by the smallest smidgen of an inch and it drives Ethos wild, but he bites his tongue for the sake of friendship. Praxis’ depth perception might be off, too, and Ethos doesn’t want to say anything potentially offensive. He’ll just go back and fix them later. No big deal.  
  
The lack of small talk, however, is.  
  
Ethos wants to fill the void, but his head’s emptier than his stomach.  
  
Maybe he can squeeze in some chitchat about the war. Wait. No.  _Horrible_  idea. Scratch that. Maybe food. Ethos likes food. Most people do. Praxis probably likes food. Yeah. That’s better. He wonders what Praxis’ favorite kind is. Spicy? Savory? Sweet? Something Russian? They don’t eat together, not like Cain and Abel, so Ethos has to rely on his imagination to help fill in the blanks. Praxis looks like a steak and eggs kind of guy, too much protein not enough greens, and he’d wash it all down with a crisp, cold beer. Or juice if he were having breakfast. Ethos enjoys soup. And ice cream. Separately. Obviously not together. That would be weird. Unless of course the ice cream melted into a liquidy version of itself and he could drink straight from the bowl, then that wouldn’t—  
  
Ethos twists too far and the metal creaks.  
  
“Oh!”  
  
The heavy panel he’s unscrewing slips out of his grasp and drops unexpectedly. Ethos covers his head, hoping to save himself a trip to medical. If he's lucky he’ll walk away from this only mildly concussed, which is marginally better than death.  
  
The panel shortstops mere centimeters above his cowlick, teetering on the tips of ten gloved fingers. Ethos looks over his shoulder and gapes like a goldfish. Praxis must have freakishly good reflexes because he's standing right behind him, the only thing separating Ethos’ head from twenty pounds of reinforced steel. Ethos whispers another quiet “oh” with all the wonder of a small child captivated by Superman as he saves yet another bus full of civilians from Lex Luthor's dastardly plans. A backtrack of  _oooh_ ’s and  _aaah_ ’s plays on loop inside his head. The drool is a bit much, though, so Ethos licks that away and tries on something more intelligent for size.  
  
“I-I um, thanks?” Brilliant.  
  
Praxis drops the panel onto the floor. The metal clatters. Ethos gawks. “Are you all right?”  
  
What a silly question. Of course he is! Praxis just saved his fragile, mortal life. And he looked really cool doing it, too.  
  
“Well, I don't know about all that…” Praxis rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed.  
  
Oh. Oh no. Did Ethos say that out loud? “Um, I mean yes! Yes, I'm fine! How about lunch?” Foot meet mouth. Whoever spliced Ethos’ genes the day he was re-sequenced must have been off his rocker. Or drunk. Perhaps both knowing Ethos’ luck.  
  
“Lunch?” Praxis repeats, still using that confused-by-your-strange-Earth-customs tone.  
  
“Yeah! I mean, I haven't eaten in a while—” since yesterday “—and I could use a break. So do you want to go? To the mess hall? With me? Maybe?” This isn't a date. It's not. Ethos doesn't do dates. They're barely acquaintances as it is. Besides, no one ever says—  
  
“All right.”  
  
Well. That's new.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
The trek down to the mess hall is a very quiet, awkward affair and Ethos would rather not talk about how he pressed the wrong button on the lift. Twice. Or how Praxis had raised an eyebrow at all of his attempted small talk. Maybe it’s too soon to bring up his collection of centuries old manuscripts translated from dead Earth languages (most of which he can read) to modern day English. Maybe he’ll never bring up that topic. Again.  
  
When they sit down, people stare.  
  
As they should.  
  
Praxis takes up twice as much space, both literally and figuratively. His elbows keep bumping into trays, he’s a whole head taller than everyone else at the table, and has Ethos mentioned that  _people_  are _staring_? Because they are. Intently. Little laser beams directed at the back of his head. That’s what you get for disrupting the delicate balance of the cafeteria. Fighters eat on one side. Navigators on the other. They don’t mix. No mingling. Which is why it’s so weird for Praxis to be sitting here. At the navigator’s table. Eating replicated turkey breast(?) and green bean casserole with Ethos, like there’s nothing fundamentally wrong about their breaking taboo. They might as well be spitting in the face of tradition.  
  
“Maybe we should’ve sat with the fighters?” Ethos says through a bite of his casserole. It tastes bland and uninteresting, on par with his choice of conversation thus far.  
  
Praxis tenses. He looks sickened by the suggestion, or perhaps by the food. “No,” he replies after a beat and for some reason that makes Ethos sad. “They would’ve done more than just stare.”  
  
They would’ve—oh. “Ah. So—”  
  
“So it’s better this way.”  
  
They eat in relative silence and accidentally play footsie whenever Ethos’ nervous feet kick too hard under the table. Praxis doesn’t say anything about it. He’s either too hungry to care or much nicer than Ethos gives credit for.  
  
Ethos doesn’t know what to say, though, which makes lunch even more unbearable than usual. He could probably talk about the repairs, but he wants Praxis to stay upright and conscious, and not face-plant into his pudding. He stabs his jello from sheer boredom because he’s run out of topics.  
  
Ethos decrypts Colteron transmissions. Praxis can break bones. Ethos likes plants. Praxis probably suffers from PTSD. They don’t really have anything in common. Except for the fact that they’re both abysmally awkward around each other and not enjoying the braised turkey.  
  
Praxis picks up his hot bowl of chicken noodle and starts slurping away, spoon abandoned.  
  
Abel would be repulsed.  
  
Ethos is not.  
  
“How is it?” Ethos says, voice timid. He hasn’t tried his, but he suspects it tastes like everything else: artificial and devoid of any flavor.  
  
Praxis wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand. Crass, yet charming. “This slop they serve doesn’t taste all that good. My mother makes better.”  
  
And now, suddenly, there’s something to talk about. He never knew Praxis’ mother was still alive. Or anything like his own.  
  
“Mine too. She used to freeze whole batches in containers and ship them to me at the academy. I think I ate my entire weight’s worth in lentils and corn by the time I graduated. My blood was probably 80% chowder, too. And then after the ceremony, oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe the giant pot of—”  
  
And then Praxis does something so unexpected, so surprising, it cuts Ethos’ story short. Ethos has to stop and process the fact that Praxis is laughing. Not just chuckling for the sake of it, but actually  _laughing_ , loud and clear, the kind of laugh you can feel all the way down in your belly as it rattles your bones. The sound uncoils the knots in Ethos’ stomach, and gives him a few more.  
  
Ethos laughs, too.  
  
Everyone else stares.  
  
“Sorry!” Ethos apologizes. Now he’s the one scratching the back of his head. “I just, uh, really miss my mom. And her cooking. Sometimes I ramble when I talk about her.”  
  
Praxis just smiles and doesn't say anything deprecating. Other people might—fighters (and some navigators, aka Phobos)—but Praxis doesn't. He puts the bowl down and scoots closer. Their knees knock. Ethos swallows.  
  
“Every mother back on Mars has their own version of borscht and they all claim to make the best.” Praxis leans in a bit, like he’s about to divulge confidential information here and not his mother’s soup recipe. Ethos does the same, and he suddenly feels lightheaded. He can still smell the vegetable broth on Praxis’ breath. “Mine throws in a little apple to make it sweeter. And let me tell you, hers really is the best.”  
  
Ethos smirks. “My mom puts a cup of beer in her French onion and lets it simmer for hours. She always makes it during winter and mails me some. Or did. This is my first time in space, away from home. She can't exactly send me a package of it out here. I don't think the Alliance is big on deliveries, either.” Ethos goes back to stabbing his jello, hoping to squash some of his lingering homesickness. The gelatinous blob wiggles away from his fork at the last second.  
  
Praxis pulls away and says nothing in response.  
  
He has successfully ruined the mood and killed any and all progress toward a decent, working partnership. Foot meet mouth: the sequel.  
  
Praxis exhales and scratches the back of his head. Twenty-six. “Look, I know I haven't been the best teammate, and—” Twenty-seven “—I know I haven't made this any easier for you, either. As your fighter, I’m supposed to help you feel not so...alone. So, what I'm getting at is—” Ethos looks up and catches Praxis’ eye. He never realized just how brown it is. “I’m sorry. For everything. I shouldn’t have neglected our compatibility for so long and it won't happen again.” He sounds more serious than usual. “Partners?”  
  
When Praxis extends his hand Ethos just stares at it.  
  
He's dreamed of this moment for months. Fantasized about how this scenario might play out. Usually it's somewhere more private and they're alone, not eating crappy space food and being stared at by the whole ship. But he supposes this is better than his actual dreams where, sometimes, he's naked, under a spotlight, and surrounded by his old professors, which would make everything way more uncomfortable than it already is.  
  
Ethos accepts the gesture. Praxis sighs in relief. “Partners,” Ethos affirms.  
  
That should be the end of it.  
  
Ethos doesn’t want to push his luck, but—  
  
“Do you want to practice? Sometime? With me?”  
  
He’s rushing through this, trying to kick-start their relationship into overdrive too soon. Praxis isn’t ready. They’ve only just—  
  
“Tomorrow. I promise.”  
  
Ethos blanches until he’s paler than their overcooked green beans.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
He races by Deimos in the hallway on his way to the VR Simulators. He’s three minutes late. “Why are you in such a good mood?” Deimos asks, or would if he spoke. Ethos can tell that’s what he means, though. They’re on non-verbal speaking terms now.  
  
“Training practice!” he shouts over his shoulder in a mad dash for the elevator. He just barely skirts through the doors before they close behind him, air whooshing his still wet hair.  
  
He overslept this morning and showed up at his post tardy all because of some weird nightmare he had last night that involved him shrinking to the size of a pea and being chased by Thanksgiving turkeys. Ethos can’t remember much else—aside from the forest of green beans and Godzilla-sized dogs—but he does recall Abel accidentally squashing him flatter than a pancake. Ethos isn’t an expert in dream analysis, but he can only assume this is all thanks to his deep-rooted anxiety and crippling trust issues, courtesy of Praxis.  
  
When he finally shows up (out of breath and panting), Praxis is standing next to an empty capsule, arms folded tightly across his chest as he stares at another navigator/fighter pair emerging from theirs with big smiles on their faces.  
  
“Ah, I’m so sorry!” Ethos huffs. He should work out more often. “I got caught up on the bridge and lost track of time.”  
  
Praxis has to turn three quarters of the way around to get Ethos in his line of sight. “It’s fine. I just got here myself.” His eyebrows furrow. “You feeling okay? By the time I’m up you’re usually gone, but you were passed out in your bed this morning when I left.”  
  
There’s no logical way to explain the turkeys so Ethos doesn’t. “I’m fine!” he says with a wave of his hand. “Really! All good! Do you want to start now or—?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” Praxis opens the hatch and climbs inside, Ethos trailing right behind him.  
  
“I’m warning you right now, I haven’t actually done this in weeks. So I might be a little rusty.” Ethos settles into his chair and plays with the settings, as if he were inside a real starfighter. He hasn’t been in one those, either. Since he’d been assigned to Praxis. Their scores are too low.  
  
Praxis pauses. “I haven’t been in one of these since—since the last time…” Ethos can feel Praxis’ tension bleeding through his chair and into Ethos’ half of the simulator. Foot meet mouth: the trinity.  
  
“I didn’t mean—”  
  
“It’s all right. I’m…” exhale “moving past it. Let’s just get some practice in. I could use it.”  
  
Praxis doesn’t say anything else, and Ethos promptly shuts up.  
  
After five back-to-back runs, they’re both wiped. Praxis has a good sense for combat. He can predict enemy ship movement before Ethos can and did his fair share of backseat navigating. Which isn’t to say Ethos did nothing, because he didn’t. Ethos may not be as good as Keeler or even Abel, but he can hold his own just fine. They ended up destroying a total of five Colteron ships. Not exactly impressive, but it’s a start. Ethos feels confident that he’ll improve with time. He has no idea how he compares to Praxis’ old navigator, though, and that frustrates him more than it should.  
  
His forehead’s drenched when the hatch opens again, a rosy pink like his cheeks. The digital clock on the wall reads 15:40. They’ve been in here for two hours. Ethos is only dimly aware of his responsibilities and schedule. Praxis doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, either.  
  
“That was decent,” Praxis notes. He’s flushed from the top of his head all the way down to his neck, glowing with sweat. “Not bad, not great, either, but definitely better than our last session a few months back.”  
  
Ethos nods and flashes a toothy grin. “You were really good, Praxis! Seriously, you’re just—wow! Your last navigator must’ve been something if he could keep up with you!” It’s meant as self-deprecation.  
  
Praxis’ face falls.  
  
One day, Ethos is going to saw his own two feet off to prevent himself from saying anything else potentially idiotic.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t—”  
  
Ethos gives up halfway through explaining and steps out of the capsule. A cold blast of air conditioning cools his damp skin, but not the tips of his ears, which are still very red and very much on fire.  
  
A bigger hand claps him hard on the shoulder and Ethos jumps, and then realizes that it’s just Praxis, and that he’s pretty dumb for feeling scared in the first place.  
  
“Don’t do that to yourself,” Praxis tells him like he means it. Maybe he does. “Don’t compare. It’s not fair to you or me, all right? What’s in the past is past. You’re  _my_  navigator now. That’s all that matters.”  
  
That hand on his shoulder tightens and Ethos feels as though it might as well be squeezing his heart. “You’re right. Just. Yeah. I’m sorry I—”  
  
“Ethos, stop apologizing. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who did this to you.”   
  
Praxis offers a small, encouraging smile. Ethos can’t tell who exactly it’s meant for, but he accepts the gesture regardless. And when his chest clenches uncomfortably for the second time in a row, he agrees that yes, this is all Praxis’ fault, and he’s glad at least one of them is taking responsibility for how he feels right now.   
  
“Do you think we’ll ever be good together?”   
  
The unspoken fear of every navigator in the Alliance: to find out you’re incompatible with the fighter you’ve been tasked with. There’s always reassignment, but that looks bad and ruins your record. You don’t want to end up on the list, either. The list that names every navigator incapable of housebreaking their fighter. Twelve hours ago, Ethos thought he’d end up there. Right near the top. Marked as a failure and sent back home because he couldn’t figure out how to get Praxis to say something other than “hello” and “I’m going out”. He thinks it might be different now, though, because Praxis is smirking down at him, something Ethos has never seen him do.   
  
“No.”  
  
Ethos flatlines. The invisible monitor hooked up to his heart blares a long, monotone beep.  
  
And then unexpectedly spikes when Praxis adds: “We’re gonna be great.”  
  
Ethos laughs so loud it echoes throughout the hangar. Praxis reddens, but then joins in, hiding his embarrassment behind a genuine smile. The other teams nearby stare.   
  
“That was so cheesy,” Ethos gasps, still doubled over. “I never knew you were so sentimental!”  
  
Praxis pats Ethos on the back when he starts to cough. “What can I say? I’m a big fan of clichés.”  
  
“Me too. I like it when things end the way they should. Like in books and movies. It’s kind of boring, I know, but I’m not a big fan of excitement.” The only excitement Ethos likes is written in print and bound between two hard covers. Which is only a little ironic considering his career choice.  
  
Praxis’ hand migrates from Ethos’ shoulder to his head, fingers finding temporary residence in Ethos’ wild curls. The weight of his palm flattens Ethos’ hair. “Not everything has to be a blockbuster,” Praxis says. “Boring’s a-okay with me. Besides, I think I could use a little less excitement, to be perfectly honest.”  
  
“What do you—”  
  
Praxis points at his eyepatch.  
  
Ethos sputters, unsure whether he’s supposed to find that funny or not. He doesn’t want to be insensitive, but—   
  
Praxis laughs first, breaking the ice. “It’s okay. I’m not hung up about it. You can laugh. It was a joke!” Ethos tries to, but his voice sounds strained. Praxis finds his attempt humorous at least. “It’s a good thing I’ve got two of ‘em. Or did. Trying to aim’s a bitch, though.”  
  
Ethos fluffs the back of his head when Praxis steps back. He probably looks ridiculous or slightly crazed with his hair sticking up like this, but he doesn’t care. “Well, that’s why you’ve got me, right? I’ll make sure to line them up so you don’t have to.” Ethos beams.  
  
“Yeah,” Praxis breathes, still smiling, patting Ethos’ head one last time. “I’ve got you.”  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
In three weeks their score increases a whopping twenty points, high enough to meet the criteria for potential deployment. Keeler praises Ethos on a job well done, though Ethos isn’t sure what exactly he did, specifically, to get them here. Encke must mention something similar to Praxis because he comes back to their bunk one evening fervently whistling a fast-paced tune Ethos had never heard before. Praxis only whistles when he’s in a good mood. At least that's the theory. He’s only done it three times thus far. But it’s been happening more frequently. Usually after they train or share a meal in the mess hall.  
  
Their conversations are lengthier now, too, sometimes surpassing thirty, even fifty words at any given time. Ethos talks about his hobbies (studying dead languages, trimming the leaves on his azaleas, reading mystery novels) and Praxis talks about the colonies (mostly his mother, though he did mention how he used to collect rocks when he was eight because on Mars there’s nothing fun to pass the time; he named his favorite Herbert and kept him till he was twelve).  
  
They’ve evolved into something more tangible, something Ethos can label and compartmentalize whenever he bumps into Praxis in the hallway. It’s still formless, though, morphing and changing every time they meet, and Ethos is confident that maybe he won’t be a colossal failure after all.   
  
It’s on a Wednesday afternoon—Ethos remembers it being Wednesday because that’s when they’re both free; there’s a small forty-minute window between lunch and work where they can just sit down and talk—when he has this sudden epiphany.  
  
The moment when Praxis walks into their bunk holding something green and vibrant and not at all artificial.  
  
Ethos puts down his datapad and stares in disbelief. He can’t focus on reading the latest report when he sees  _that_. “Is that a—”  
  
“Yup. A real living, breathing plant,” Praxis says as he places the small pot on their shared dresser. It looks fragile and slightly wilted, on the verge of death. “The MO didn’t want this thing anymore. Said he didn’t have time to raise it properly, so I took it off his hands. Here. You said you missed your old ones back home.” Praxis scratches the back of his head. Fifty-eight.  
  
“I thought you were asleep when I mentioned them,” Ethos says mostly to himself, a little shocked Praxis recalled something so embarrassing.  
  
“Half-asleep,” Praxis amends. He’s fidgetier than usual which is weird considering he always looks so stoic. “I remembered bits and pieces, enough to know that you’d probably like it.” And then more seriously adds: “You do like it, right?”  
  
Ethos beams. “Of course I like it! It’s a—”  
  
Wait. What is it?  
  
The stem is barely poking through the dirt.  
  
“Praxis, what is this?”  
  
Praxis stares at the small pot like he’s quantifying an equation, hopelessly confused about its relative state of being on this plane of existence. “I’m…not sure. Wait here, I’ll go find out.”  
  
The plant isn’t a flower as Praxis had first thought. It’s actually a bonsai tree. Praxis walked all the way back to medical just to find out. Thankfully he left before the doctor could spill his entire decision-making process for purchasing the tree in the first place. Or talk about acid reflux. The MO rambles worse than Ethos. Angrily, too.  
  
Ethos is both surprised and impressed by Praxis’ dedication. To the plant, not him. They’re not—it’s not like that.  
  
“Do you know how to care for it?” Praxis says, still just as confused as he was ten minutes ago.   
  
The leaves look a bit sad and the stem’s growing straight, for now. With just the right touch, the tree could actually make it. “Yeah. You have to water it about once a week, submerge the whole thing until the roots soak up enough liquid. It’s not that hard, really. I’m just curious what shape it’ll take. Or if we can get a small lamp. Hmm.” Ethos turns the pot around to inspect the back. “I think I’m gonna name it.”  
  
Praxis smiles amusedly. “Yeah?”   
  
Ethos smiles right back. “Herbert.”  
  
“Herbert?!”   
  
“After your rock!”  
  
Praxis looks scandalized, mortified, and every other possible adjective for the word  _humiliated_. “I was hoping you’d forget I even told you that,” he sighs, shaking his head. “You’re the only person who knows, too. God, it’s so embarrassing.”  
  
“No it’s not,” Ethos counters, actually offended. He names his plants all the time. And he kind of doesn’t want Praxis to regret telling him. Ethos likes hearing about Praxis’ life pre-Alliance. Herbert can be their little secret. “It’s perfectly normal. And Herbert’s a great name. Now it’s like the tree really belongs to the both of us.”  
  
“Both of us?” Praxis repeats, slowly.  
  
Ethos panics and tries to take it back. He’s pushing again. “I-I mean. You don’t have to. Take care of it, that is. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I can manage on my own just fine. You don’t have to help. Really. It’s fine.”  
  
He can. Ethos has cared for several plants in his lifetime, from roses to tulips to purple hydrangeas. Making sure his bonsai doesn’t die won’t be exceptionally difficult on his own. He works odd hours though and has a terrible memory so there’s always the possibility of accidental homicide. He just thought it would be nice to share something like this with someone that he—  
  
Oh.  
  
That formless shape looming between them morphs again and Ethos quickly realizes just how dangerous and  _different_  it is now. He especially doesn’t like how it tightens his chest.  
  
Praxis stares down at the plant, then at Ethos, then back at Herbert and says, “I can’t guarantee I won’t kill it. I’m not very good at these kinds of things.” He looks more anxious than a first time father in a delivery room, fretting over their sapling’s future.   
  
It’s a  _tree_ , but somehow Ethos feels like Herbert’s bigger than that, symbolic of something greater and he’s terrified this will end horribly. But a part of him hopes that it won’t and that maybe, just maybe, they can make this work. And if it doesn’t, then he’ll remind himself that Herbert is just a plant and that Praxis never claimed to be a gardener.  
  
“That’s okay. I killed tons of plants when I first started.” Ethos turns the faucet on and stops up the sink. The soil is dry and needs water. “You get the hang of it eventually.” The basin fills until Herbert is completely submerged, stem barely visible beneath the surface.  
  
“How'd you stop?” Praxis asks, vaguely curious. He watches Ethos roll his sleeves up. “Killing them, that is.”  
  
Ten seconds.  
  
Fifteen.  
  
Ethos pulls Herbert out just as the bubbles stop rising. “Ah, well. Um.” The pot is much heavier now, almost too heavy for Ethos to lift on his own. “My dad told me, kind of. He said—” Ethos clears his throat and deepens his voice for dramatic effect “You can’t keep treating them all the same, son! A rose is a rose! It doesn’t need as much sunlight or water as a carnation! You have to treat them the way they want to be treated! So stop wishing they were pansies and just accept what you’ve got!” Ethos coughs and rubs his throat.  
  
Praxis laughs again and Ethos blushes because he feels a little silly. “Your father’s a smart man.”  
  
“Only sometimes. Most of his advice is pretty bad. Like when he told me to confront my bully in third grade and I ended up with two black eyes and a busted lip. That didn’t end so well.” Ethos grimaces at the memory. “But he has his moments.”  
  
The water in the sink slowly swirls down the drain and Ethos wishes he could be sucked down with it. There’s something comforting about Praxis that makes him open up and share every humiliating detail Ethos can remember in all his nineteen years of life.  
  
Praxis folds his arms across his chest and exhales shakily, as if working himself up to admit something monumental and earth-shattering. “I guess…I can give it a shot,” he says, wavering. “No promises, though. I’m not exactly the nurturing type. The only things I raised were those rocks...”  
  
Ethos places Herbert back on their dresser and then grabs Praxis’ elbow reassuringly. Praxis looks down and stares, but doesn’t pull away. “And you didn’t kill those so who knows! Maybe you’ll make a great dad!” Praxis’ right eye widens. “For the plant!  _The plant_!” Ethos tacks on all too quickly.  
  
He’s trembling, jittery and panicky. Ethos needs more than just duct tape to keep his stupid mouth shut.  
  
Praxis snorts and then doubles over in laughter, eye squeezing shut and shoulders shaking. An actual tear forms at the corner. He wipes it away with the same hand he uses to pat Ethos’ back. “You know, when we agreed to be partners, I didn’t think we’d take it so literally. But now here we are, sharing custody of a tree.” Praxis shakes his head, still smiling. “Partners, huh?”  
  
Ethos thinks back to that very dangerous thought he’d squashed a few minutes ago and unashamedly revives it faster than he can say, “partners”. The word cements what he’s been feeling, but he’d be happier if it didn’t twist him up like gnarled roots, too.  
  
“Every other week seems fair.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Praxis holds his chin in thought. “We can take turns feeding and watering the tree every other week. It’s fairer that way. So one of us isn’t doing all the work.” He almost looks like he wants to say  _again_ , but holds off at the last second.  
  
Ethos remembers to breathe. “Okay,” he agrees. “Every other week. I guess I’ll go first.” There’s still time for Praxis to bail, though. So Ethos gives him one last opening, hoping he’ll take it. “You know, you don’t really have to do this if—”  
  
“Ethos.” Ethos stops rambling and looks up. Praxis’ face is set firm, resolute. “I said I’d do it. And if you want to get technical, I was the one who adopted it first, so, the tree—”  
  
“Herbert.”  
  
Praxis sighs. “ _Herbert_  is kind of half mine already. Besides, it’ll give me another excuse to come to the bunk more often.”  
  
There was a moment there where Ethos almost considered asking what the first reason was, but Praxis pointedly dodged the question by mumbling something about being late for physical training and left before Ethos so much as let the question finish traveling from his brain to his mouth.  
  
Which probably was a good thing in hindsight.  
  
Ethos wouldn’t have been brave enough to ask.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“Ethos, what are you doing?”  
  
Ethos pokes his head out from the top bunk. “Reading” he hisses out of habit, something he started doing during his academy days because his roommate had been the world’s lightest sleeper. No one else is in here but Praxis, though. He’s being ridiculous.  
  
“It’s almost three in the morning. Shouldn’t you get some sleep?” Praxis’ voice sounds thick with exhaustion. He’d pulled a late night down on the fighters’ deck doing whatever it is they do down there. Ethos hadn’t asked. He saw the bandages on Praxis’ fingers and knew not to.  
  
“Ah, yeah. I guess. I lost track of time.” Ethos rubs his eyes. “Wait, why are you awake?”  
  
A loud yawn and then a groan. “The light woke me,” Praxis slurs. His voice sounds muffled by the pillow.  
  
“Oh.” And now he feels guilty. Ethos turns off the lamp above his bed. The bright glare from his datapad momentarily blinds him. “Sorry about that! Go back to sleep,” he apologizes.   
  
Praxis doesn’t ask him anything else for a good thirty seconds, and Ethos thinks he’s passed out again until he hears the bed shift and Praxis’ voice say, “what are you reading?”  
  
Ethos pauses on the last paragraph. He’s about forty percent of the way through. “A mystery novel,” he replies. “By Agatha Christie.” He’s been plowing through her works since he first got here. The books had been a coping mechanism for their failed compatibility. He read through most of them on the nights Praxis didn’t come back to the bunk, hoping murder and lavish dinner parties would help him forget how their partnership wasn’t exactly normal. So far, he hasn’t been disappointed in the direction Christie’s taking him, but he’s pretty sure he’s got the ending to this one figured out.   
  
The lower bunk creaks. “Never heard of her.”  
  
Ethos almost falls out of his bed. “Are you joking?!”  
  
“Nope,” Praxis sighs. “Not a lot of people read on the colonies. There’s no time. Everybody’s too busy scraping by.” Ethos imagines Praxis rolling over onto his side when the mattress audibly dips. “I never had much time to read during training, either. They worked us like dogs before sending us up here. She a good writer?”   
  
“Yeah, she’s the best.” Ethos rolls back onto his bunk and flips through the digital pages on his datapad. “She’s really good at building suspense and throwing you for a loop. I’ve read almost everything she’s written.” He restlessly flops over onto his stomach like a flipped pancake and hugs his pillow. “I could let you borrow it, if you want?”  
  
Ethos stops breathing so he can hear every small sound Praxis makes beneath him.   
  
“I don’t think I’d have time to get through it,” Praxis mumbles into his own pillow. He’s probably on his stomach, too. “Maybe—” another deep breath “you should read it to me instead. We can see who figures it out first.”  
  
Ethos licks his dry lips. “What, like a competition?”  
  
“Scared I’ll beat you?” Praxis laughs into the sheets. “I may be from Mars, but I’m not a complete idiot.”  
  
“I didn’t mean—!”  
  
Praxis snorts. “Relax, Ethos. I’m just joking. You don’t have to read the damn book if you don’t want. I’ll get around to it on my own one of these days.”  
  
Ethos grips the railing and leans over the side of the bunk, poking his head out. His bangs drape across his eyes. “But I want to!” he blurts a little too enthusiastically. His grip slips a little and Ethos very nearly tumbles to the floor, but he catches himself at the last second.   
  
“Yeah?” Praxis rolls onto his side. Ethos can make that much out from behind the curtain of his hair.  
  
“Yeah!” Ethos echoes. “I can read the first page if you want.”  
  
Praxis pillows his head beneath his left arm. “Okay. Yeah. Go ahead.’  
  
“Tell me when you want me to stop,” Ethos says, like he’s five years old and sharing his prized action figure collection with Praxis during classroom show and tell.   
  
He pulls up the first page and starts, voice barely above a whisper. Ethos tries injecting more excitement into his speech, hoping he can use that to help mask the slight waver of it as he gets through the first couple of paragraphs. Obviously Praxis doesn’t know where any of the places mentioned in the book are, so Ethos tries his best to describe the setting, too, painting a somewhat detailed picture using as many adjectives as he can. When he's done, Ethos pauses and waits for the inevitable “stop” he's sure Praxis is going to say any second now. The clock on the dresser ticks. A full minute goes by.  
  
Ethos clears his throat. “Praxis? Do you want me to—”  
  
“No,” Praxis interrupts, tone gruff. He sounds intrigued and a little eager. “Keep going.”  
  
“Really?” Ethos smiles because five year old Praxis thinks his action figures are cool, too.  
  
“Yeah. I like it. Earth sounds way more interesting than the colonies. Read a few more pages.”  
  
They end up reading for another hour before Praxis finally passes out first, snoring through most of pages seventy-six and seven. Ethos turns off the datapad, shoves it under his pillow, and closes his eyes, hoping he can get some sleep before his shift in three hours. But Ethos feels more awake now than he did before and he can't keep still no matter what position he gets into. He flops onto his stomach, then his side, then his other side, and then his back. Nothing’s comfortable. He counts sheep, recites regulations, even says every alphabet he knows, backwards. The clock keeps ticking and Ethos keeps tossing.  
  
He gives up on more traditional methods and instead focuses on the sound of Praxis’ breathing, on how even and steady and deep it is compared to the harsh tick of the clock. He's probably on his side, facing the wall. Praxis sleeps with his eyepatch off and doesn't like Ethos catching a glimpse of what's usually hidden whenever he comes back to the bunk late. Ethos tries not to take offense, but sometimes he can’t help but wonder. Is it healed yet? Has the skin been sewed shut? Ethos thinks about that as he tries to fall asleep, about what the wound looks like, how it would feel if he touched it. About how he wants to tell Praxis that there's nothing to be ashamed of. And that Praxis is still handsome (the  _most_  handsome), left eye missing or not. Praxis’ sharp bone structure catches Ethos off guard sometimes and he ends up gaping like a goldfish glub-glubing inside a round fishbowl, big eyes tracing the bump on Praxis’ nose. It looks like it’s been broken once before and Ethos starts dreaming about that—who broke it, if it hurt, and how it still looks—   
  
The alarm suddenly goes off inside their small room, and Ethos jumps. It’s five in the morning. Praxis groans, but doesn’t get up. Ethos’ shift will start in thirty minutes. He's shaking, heart racing, and drenched in sweat, but not because of the clock sitting right next to Herbert.   
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“You’ve been smiling a lot lately. Did something happen?”  
  
Abel asks him this over coffee one afternoon at the lab. Ethos had shaken his head, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “no, not really.” Because nothing did. At least nothing he’d felt comfortable explaining. Ethos had walked in on Praxis tending to their bonsai a few hours ago, Herbert submerged in the sink with Praxis’ sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’d somehow gotten them wet in the process and when the door had whooshed open, Praxis had turned to stare at him with perhaps the most bewildered expression Ethos had ever seen.  
  
“It feels like I’m drowning it,” Praxis had said, panicked. “Like I’m killing him.”  
  
For someone so confident firing an oversized gatling gun while sitting in a ship traveling at speeds faster than sound, Praxis is disturbingly terrified by basic plant care.   
  
Ethos had laughed and rushed over to help him, pulling Herbert out of the sink just in time before Praxis accidentally waterboarded the poor thing.   
  
So when Keeler asks him the same thing three hours later, Ethos just smiles and tells him “it’s nothing” because there are some things about Praxis no one else needs to know.  
  
Like how he always combs his hair right after showering or apologizes whenever he smokes, silently begging for Ethos’ permission because he knows it irritates his lungs.  _I know, I know. It’s a filthy habit. I’ll try to cut down_. Or how he sometimes mumbles and whimpers in his sleep, dreaming of the crash in forgotten stereovision.  
  
Things people generally don’t want to hear when they ask, “so how’s it going with your fighter?”  
  
Things most people wouldn’t be bothered to care about.  
  
Ethos just tells them that they work.   
  
That he is no longer a botched lung transplanted in the wrong body.  
  
That navigating for Praxis comes as natural as breathing. That when Ethos sits in the VR capsule, he doesn’t have to think; he tunes everything out and sets his brain on autopilot because Ethos trusts Praxis to fire even before he tells him to.  
  
In three days they’ll be deployed for combat, like everyone else.  
  
But it doesn’t rattle his bones or churn his stomach the way that it should, because Praxis makes everything easy, and Ethos has come to depend on that. On knowing that Praxis will be there to offset his nerves with a warm smile or pat on the head.   
  
When Ethos realizes the implications of that, just how heavy and unwieldy it is, he wishes he could shove the revelation back down his throat before it ends up gurgling to the surface, bursting like the bubbles Herbert soaks up in their sink. Because once he says it, once he  _admits_  it, there’s no going back. And he'd rather drown than give what he’s feeling a definable, concrete name.   
  
You should never lay down roots in places they won’t grow.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“ _Nice shot,_ Tiberius _! Watch your six!_ ”  
  
“Ethos!”  
  
“I see them!”  
  
The  _Tiberius_  pulls up at the last second, narrowly avoiding the Colteron fighter zeroing in on their rear. Ethos quickly turns the starfighter about and heads straight for the enemy. They've got this.  
  
This was supposed to be a quick hit and run operation, but command hadn’t counted on there being more than five enemy ships in the area. So Cook ordered a second wave of starfighters to help lay down some cover fire as the  _Reliant_  and  _Equinox_  skirted away from the scene and back toward the  _Sleipnir_ , successful in their mission to eliminate a small Colteron satellite relaying information on everything the Alliance has been doing in this sector. Ethos and Praxis are to assist and nothing more. The higher ups don't think they're ready for anything else. Ethos begs to differ.   
  
He adjusts their flight pattern to match the enemy ship straight ahead.  
  
Ethos keeps their course steady. If someone doesn’t take care of this Colteron right now, there’s a very good chance this whole mission will have been for nothing. Keeler and Encke are on their way, but they’re not close enough. And Ethos wants this more than they do. “Permission to pursue?” he radios, resolve firm. The  _Tiberius_  pulls further ahead, closing in.  
  
“Tiberius,  _turn about. Do not engage the enemy. The_ Valkyrie _is on its way_.”  
  
Ethos swallows. “I—” He doesn’t  _want_  to, but Ethos doesn’t have it in him to argue. Or didn’t. He wouldn't have tried before Praxis. “But sir, if the ship gets away it'll transmit our current position to the Colteron fleet!”   
  
That voice comes back, angrier than before. “ _Negative. Stand down,_ Tiberius.  _That's a direct order_.”  
  
Ethos feels more gutted than a freshly butchered fish.  
  
He eases down on the thrusters and—   
  
“With all due respect,” Praxis interjects just before the  _Tiberius_  changes course “the  _Valkyrie_  won’t make it in time and I don't think central command back home is too keen on blowing our cover out here. So you can either let the ship get away or let us take the shot. I suggest you reconsider. Sir.”  
  
Time slows down to a crawl and those two seconds it takes for Cook to get on the radio seem to last an eternity. The static crackles, their commander’s voice filling the cockpit. “Permission granted,” he says. “Do not let them escape.”  
  
Ethos’ mouth dries. “Y-yes, sir!”  
  
The intercom fizzles out.  
  
Praxis turns his head, angling his voice toward Ethos on the other side of the ship. “We can do this. Just tell me when and I’ll take ‘em down.” Then quieter, a bit deeper, “I trust you.”  
  
Three words Ethos thought he'd never hear. He feels light and airy, like a balloon filled with helium, just ready to burst. Ethos remembers to swallow and takes in a deep breath.   
  
“Me too!” he blurts, stumbling over his own words. He doesn’t want Praxis to hear how nervous he is, but the slight waver tumbles out anyway. “Um, trust you, that is. I trust you, Praxis! I’ll make sure you don’t miss!”  
  
Layers of steel and wire separate their chairs, but Ethos swears he can feel Praxis’ smile through all seven sheets of metal that stand between them.   
  
“You better kick start the engine or we’re gonna lose them,” Praxis says.   
  
“Right!”  
  
The thrusters ignite and the  _Tiberius_  surges forward.   
  
Ethos takes them in until they’re as close as they can without being directly on top of the enemy. This one’s tricky, though, smarter than the simulations he’s used to tailing. That doesn’t stop Ethos from gaining speed and mimicking the same zigs and zags the Colteron’s desperately using to shake them off. They’re in weapons range now. All they need is one good shot.   
  
He lines up the crosshairs, waits for the right moment, and says, “Praxis, fire!” when the timing couldn't be more perfect. Praxis pulls the trigger on command, fingers squeezing the second he hears Ethos calling his name. A flurry of bullets whiz by. The shot’s a direct hit on the Colteron’s main engine and the ship starts to spin wildly out of control, spiraling, frenzied, until the enemy spacecraft suddenly explodes into a million different pieces.   
  
Garbled voices on the intercom cheer. Ethos laughs in disbelief, heart hammering inside his chest. He's shaking all over. Delirious.  _Happy_. Every cell in his body tingles with excitement, like a live wire just bursting with electricity. The blood pounding in his ears slowly ebbs away just in time for him to hear Cook trying to hail them, telling the  _Tiberius_  to come back. And for a job well done.  
  
Praxis exclaims something in Russian and laughs, overjoyed.   
  
Ethos punches in the coordinates for the  _Sleipnir_  and can’t help but laugh, too.  
  
He looks over his shoulder and catches the tail end of Praxis’ celebratory thumbs up.   
  
When the starfighter docks and the engine powers down, Ethos steps out, wobbly on his feet, a little woozy and indescribably giddy. A few navigators and fighters are cheering down below. Not enough to call a crowd, but a decent sized group that makes Ethos beam brighter than the stars. There’s a bigger flock of people surrounding Abel and Cain, but Ethos doesn’t mind not being the center of attention. He’s not big on pomp and fanfare.   
  
A long arm wraps around his shoulders and Ethos startles, but then relaxes into that familiar weight.   
  
“I guess all that hard work paid off, huh? We did well out there and I couldn’t have done it without you, Ethos,” Praxis says so that only Ethos can hear. His hand moves on autopilot to tangle in Ethos’ curls, patting his head. He does this often now, seemingly amused by their height difference.  
  
Ethos flushes until he’s as red as the shoulder pads on his jumpsuit. “Ah, it was nothing! You’re the one who took the shot…”   
  
Praxis smirks. “That’s not true and you know it. Stop being so modest. We did it. Together.”  
  
That hand moves lower, slithering its way down, settling on the small of Ethos’ back. His breath hitches and suddenly it's too stuffy inside his jumpsuit. Praxis gently urges Ethos forward.   
  
“Let's go,” he says when Ethos’ feet don't move. “I’m sweating in this thing.”  
  
_Me, too_  is what he wants to say, but Ethos’ brain hard resets and all he can manage is: “o-okay.”  
  
“Hey Praxis!” hollers one of the fighters as they climb down. “How about lettin’ me borrow him for a bit, huh? That one really knows how to fly!”  
  
Praxis pulls Ethos towards him again and their hips bump, hard enough so that he can feel the sharp jut of bone and muscle. Praxis is burning up. Ethos is, too. “Hey, no need to get greedy! You’ve got your own navigator, Akron,” Praxis says through a laugh even though it doesn’t sound like he’s joking. It’s that tone Praxis uses when he’s being playfully serious.   
  
“Oh, come on! It’s not like we’re attached by the umbilical cord here. They’re just navs,” Akron whines, still smirking. His upper lip curls smugly. “Besides, rumor has it you’re sweet on someone else. A certain someone forty feet behind us.” Akron wiggles his brows suggestively and cocks his head toward the  _Reliant_. Abel’s just now getting out of his own ship.   
  
Praxis drops the goodnatured act and adopts a more predatory expression, one Ethos hasn’t seen before. Usually he cycles between stoic, deep in thought, or slightly annoyed (usually whenever he has to deal with Phobos in the cafeteria or he’s talking about something stupid Cain did on the fighter’s deck), but the look on his face right now is scarily different. Intimidating.   
  
“You must’ve heard wrong, Akron,” Praxis says through a frown, eyebrows creasing. “It’s not like that. Abel’s a friend, that’s all. Try not to believe every rumor you hear down below, anyway. It’s all bull.”  
  
Akron snorts so loud it draws a crowd. Now a few people are staring. “Oh, please! We all know you’ve got a thing for him. There’s no point in hidin’ it! I mean, you’ve got some serious balls considering that’s _Cain’s_  navigator and all, but come on, man. Lay off the good guy act. You’re just as big a dog as the rest of us. So whaddaya say, huh? Let’s trade. It’s not like you’re all that into him, anyway.” He nudges Praxis in the arm and winks.   
  
It takes less than a millisecond for Praxis’ balled fist to connect with Akron’s jaw. The sound of the punch registers before Ethos actually sees Praxis do it and when he does, his eyes bulge, widening like saucers. People step back and form a circle. The navigators look on in horror as the fighters whoop and holler. Some officers rush over to break up the fight. Not that there really is one. Praxis took care of Akron in one hit.   
  
“I may be a dog, but I’m at least a better breed than you.”   
  
Praxis sucks in air through his teeth, seething. His fists are still clenched tightly and the way his chest rises and falls makes Ethos’ own heave, too. He’s holding back and not pummeling Akron’s face into the floor. That much Ethos can tell.   
  
“What the hell’s going on!” shouts one of the higher up’s as he pushes through the large crowd that’s now gathered.   
  
“And don’t ask me that again or you’ll get the same exact answer!” Praxis barks. Akron’s jaw swells, the spot Praxis hit a deeper shade of red than it was before. “You can do whatever the hell you want with your navigator, Akron, but this one’s mine.”  
  
What scares Ethos more than the implications of the statement is how he almost opens his mouth to confirm that yes, he is.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“So then he punched him— _wham!_ —and Akron went down faster than dominoes! I’ve never seen Praxis so mad before. And just,  _wow_ , can he really throw a punch! That fighter didn’t get back up for another three minutes. They had to call a medical technician and everything just to make sure Praxis didn’t dislocate his jaw. I mean, as sweet as it was that he stood up for me like that, he didn’t have to hit him. He got in trouble for it, too, which is ridiculous because Akron did kind of deserve it. He was being an ass. Does that happen a lot? On the lower levels? Do the fighters, uh, fight? Often?”  
  
Deimos stares blankly at Ethos as he huffs through his cigarette. Ethos hasn’t stopped talking about the fight that happened in the hangar yesterday for what feels like hours. Deimos seems vaguely disinterested, but that's how he always looks. He nods his head yes and sucks down another drag, and then exhales a thin stream of smoke through his nose, bringing his attention back toward his cigarette.  
  
They meet in the cargo bay to talk sometimes, though Ethos thinks most of their conversations are incredibly one-sided. Which is fine because Deimos doesn't like to contribute all that much and Ethos has a tendency to ramble. If anything, Deimos is a very patient listener. And Ethos needs to work on keeping things short and concise.  
  
“Ah. Well, was he wrong? To hit him?” Ethos scratches the back of his head.  
  
Deimos shakes his.   
  
“I guess you’re right. Yeah. I mean, he was only looking out for me. Any fighter would’ve done that for his navigator. You would’ve done the same for Phobos, right?”  
  
Deimos shoots Ethos the most deadpan,  _are you shitting me_  expression he’s ever seen before placing the cigarette back between his lips and inhaling.   
  
Ethos blushes. “Well, I mean, Phobos is...Phobos. His own mother would probably deck him if she could. But what I’m getting at is that was pretty typical, right? Cain would’ve done that for Abel… And Encke, too. If it were Keeler.”   
  
Deimos rolls his eyes, as if trying to communicate that yes, Cain would have done that for Abel because he’s so infatuated with him that it’s almost ludicrous how the entire ship doesn’t know at this point. And the same goes for Encke, who’s even more inconspicuous than Cain when it comes to hiding forbidden fraternization. He doesn’t say any of this, though, and just shrugs his shoulders, and then stubs out the filter. Deimos reaches for a second stick and lights up against the crates, making sure to do it in the opposite direction of Ethos’ face so that he can’t breathe in the smoke.   
  
“I know, I’m being dumb,” Ethos mumbles. “I’m thinking too much again, aren’t I?”  
  
Deimos nods his head vigorously and smirks, holding back a laugh.   
  
Ethos sighs and sits down on a small box, hands on his knees. “You really know how to cheer me up, Deimos,” he moans, toeing the floor, believing his current situation to be a hopeless one filled with even more gut-wrenching confusion than the one he’d had before.   
  
When Praxis was little more than a stranger who flittered in and out of Ethos’ life at odd hours of the day, everything had felt simple and strangely explicable. Ethos could handle being ignored and shelved, an old toy long forgotten, shoved under the bed. He’d been replaced by a newer, better model and Ethos could live with that. He could stomach the fact that he’d always be second best. But now he’s not and Ethos can’t even pinpoint the exact moment their relationship had changed. Maybe it was when Praxis had stolen a bite of his food the other week, fork diving into Ethos’ pasta without hesitation the second Ethos had said  _sure, go ahead_. Or maybe it was two days ago, when Praxis had walked onto the bridge (the only fighter in sight) to drag Ethos back to their bunk because he’d been there for hours already and Keeler was this close to kicking him out if he didn’t turn off the damn terminal and get some shut eye.   
  
You’re supposed to spend time with your fighter, Ethos reasons. There’s nothing strange or abnormal about it. There’s nothing weird about wanting to be around him even after they’ve finished training for the day. They’re supposed to be bonding! That’s what his superiors had told him during his initial briefing. Hell, that’s what  _Abel_  told him. Ethos is just following orders. He’s good at that. Always has been. Yes, sir. No, sir. I’m on it! Right away, sir! Praxis is just another duty to attend to. It’s as simple as that. Except for the part where Ethos feels like he might actually throw up if he thinks too hard about it because it’s not; everything’s so complex and he doesn’t even know why.   
  
(That’s a lie. He does. But like the smoke Deimos exhales into the vents above them, Ethos lets that thought go until it completely dissipates, nothing more than a distant memory of a mistake he’s made once before.  
  
Except not really.   
  
Because Ethos can’t lie for shit.  
  
Especially to himself).  
  
Later when he’s back at the bunk, Praxis stops by just as Ethos is about to go to sleep. He’s got bandages wrapped around his fingers and wrists and one on his waist—Ethos spots it when Praxis peels off his shirt to change into something more comfortable for lights out. The bruises darken his tan skin, deep purples and blues. Ethos winces. They look painful.  
  
“What happened?” Ethos garbles around his toothbrush, pausing mid-rotation. He still brushes in circles like the dentist told him to when he was five.  
  
Praxis grunts and flops down onto his bed, arm covering his eye. His muscles languidly stretch across his bones, pulled taut. A small dribble of toothpaste drools from the corner of Ethos’ mouth. “Akron and his buddies think they’re tough shit when it’s three against one,” Praxis sighs, drained.  
  
“They ganged up on you?!” Ethos exclaims, except it comes out sounding more like  _Dey gag uff on oo?!_  
  
“Yeah. Or tried to. They're pretty shit in an actual fist fight, though. I guess the VR rooms aren’t a complete waste of space.” Praxis groans when he stretches a bit too far to reach his cigarettes on the dresser. “Fuck. You mind if I smoke? I kind of feel like I need one right now.”  
  
Ethos shakes his head. “Go ahef.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Praxis gets up, turns on the vents, and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it. He takes a long drag and slumps forward, elbows on his knees as he sits on the edge of the bed. He looks relaxed now, like he's been waiting to let out that breath he’d been holding for hours. Between him and Deimos, it's a wonder Ethos doesn't perpetually smell like an ashtray.   
  
Ethos spits out the toothpaste in the sink and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes, though he's not sure why. It just seems like the appropriate thing to do. In some weird way, Ethos feels guilty for the cuts and bruises. Praxis tries so hard to compensate for those first three weeks and sometimes it backfires, violently.   
  
“For what?” Praxis rests the cigarette between his index and middle finger, staring up at him.  
  
“Ah, I guess. For what happened?”   
  
“It’s not your fault. Those guys needed a good ass kicking, anyway.”  
  
“That’s probably true, but—”   
  
“Ethos.” Praxis exhales smoke and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. That doesn’t count, so Ethos won’t add it to the tally. “None of this was your fault. I’m just an idiot who lets his emotions get the better of him sometimes. Don’t apologize for things you haven’t done. And besides, I’d do it all over again if I had to.”  
  
“Why?” Maybe Akron hit Praxis a little too hard in the head.  
  
“Because you’re my navigator, Ethos,” Praxis says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and, well, okay. Yes, it is. But it’s the  _way_  Praxis says it that makes Ethos’ toes curl. “We’re partners.”  
  
His sock-covered feet (sometimes he sleeps with them on because the metal floor gets too cold) shuffle over and Ethos lightly pats the top of Praxis’ head, like he’s an even bigger version of Ethos’ old arch nemesis, Contessa. Except Praxis won’t wag his tail or bark  _woof_  when Ethos calls him  _good boy_. It’s only when Praxis lifts his head and smirks does Ethos realize what he’s done. He should probably stop visualizing his fighter as an oversized dog.   
  
“Ah, um, just be careful!” Ethos blurts. “It’s dangerous down there and stuff, so, uh, just don’t overdo it, okay?”  
  
“How would you know?” Praxis asks, tone disbelieving.  
  
Ethos pales. “From Deimos?”  
  
“Deimos?! You actually talk to that guy?” For a minute there, it actually sounded like Praxis might have been a tad jealous.  
  
“Sometimes.”   
  
“And what’s Deimos told you, huh? Do you even know what we do down there?” Praxis snorts, amused.   
  
Ethos shrugs. “Fight?”   
  
Praxis rolls his right eye. “I guess it’s my turn to tell a story tonight. Finish brushing and I’ll spill the beans.” Ethos smiles and makes for the sink, but then Praxis grabs his arm, stopping him. “Wait. Hold on.”  
  
“What—oh!”  
  
His thumb swipes against Ethos’ mouth, dragging against the corner of it. “You had toothpaste,” he explains rather casually, not at all fazed by the intimacy of something like that. If he is, it doesn’t show. Praxis looks as stoic as ever.  
  
Ethos swallows, mouth suddenly stuffed with cotton balls. He needs to gargle. Some water. Mouthwash. It doesn’t matter. Just something wet and cold because his throat’s drier than a desert and he’s getting thirstier by the second.   
  
“Th-thanks.” His tongue darts out to lick the spot Praxis just wiped.   
  
Fifteen seconds tick by.  
  
The cigarette burns down to the filter.  
  
“Ethos,” Praxis finally says.  
  
“Y-yeah?”  
  
“Go put the toothbrush away. It’s dripping onto the floor.”  
  
A small puddle pools beneath his feet. “Oh! Yes! Sorry!”  
  
Ethos shoves his neon green toothbrush back into their shared cup and gargles some water before climbing into bed. Praxis stubs out his cigarette and leans back, mattress creaking beneath him. “You ready?” he asks when Ethos is done shifting around.  
  
Blankets pulled up to his chin, Ethos rolls on his side and buries his face into his pillow. “As I’ll ever be.”  
  
Praxis chuckles and flips off the lights. “You won’t believe half of the things I tell you.”  
  
And he’s right. It sounds too wild to be true, like the fighter base level is a completely different world than the one Ethos lives in, but the validity of Praxis’ statements seems negligible in the grand scheme of things when they’re both laughing and smiling at two o’clock in the morning on a Thursday.   
  
Ethos shuts off his brain and remembers not to think.  
  
Neither of them sleep for another three hours.   
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Ethos considers himself a heavy sleeper. If you give him somewhere to sit, five minutes, and a little peace and quiet, he’ll pass out instantaneously. So it’s downright impressive that Praxis’ voice at 06:30 in the morning is capable of pulling him from his catatonic state. Ethos sits upright in his bed and rubs his eyes, half-conscious.  
  
Praxis is standing in front of their sink, staring into the mirror. He’s holding a blade and some tissues and wiping away fresh blood.   
  
“Damnit!” he grits, trying to keep his voice down.   
  
His shoulders tense and his back muscles are pulled tighter than a bow. Praxis usually sleeps shirtless, which Ethos finds incredibly problematic most nights. Tonight, however, he’s grateful, because it’s easier to tell just how frustrated he is.  
  
He reaches for the shaving can and smears more onto his skin, liberally slathering his jaw with blue cream. Praxis scrapes down, slower this time, careful, lacking the same confidence he carries with him on the _Tiberius_.  
  
“ _Goddamnit!_ ”  
  
Another cut. The blood trickles down his chin and pitter-patters into the sink in thick drops. It stains the white basin a splotchy red.   
  
Praxis grunts and blots the blood away.  
  
Ethos throws the blankets off and climbs down the ladder, already in motion before his brain can tell him stop. He straightens his sleep shirt before slurring, “Praxis? Are you all right?”  
  
“Ethos!” The razor clatters against the bowl. Praxis pales. “Shit. I didn’t mean to wake you on your day off.”  
  
Ethos yawns and scratches his back, hand sliding under his oversized t-shirt to reach that damn itch. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “So, Praxis, um, you’re bleeding. A bit.”  
  
Which might qualify for biggest understatement of the year. Praxis looks like a test subject for a crazed scientist or a work of modern art. There’s something very impressionistic about his face right now. He’s got all the basic shapes and outlines a human should, but there’s something slightly off which makes the whole picture seem distorted and unfocused, a failed depiction of reality. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s having a hard time shaving. Or maybe it’s all the blood.   
  
“Oh, yeah. I am,” Praxis replies rather lamely. He turns to hide his mistakes, embarrassed because Ethos is seeing him like this. And even though Ethos is standing on Praxis’ good side, he still won’t look him in the eye. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep, Ethos. I’ll try to keep it down.”  
  
He can’t though. And Praxis knows that.  
  
Ethos catches Praxis’ wrist before he can slice off yet another chunk of skin. “You can ask for help, you know. You don’t have to do everything on your own,” he says and the conviction in his voice disturbs the quiet of their room.   
  
Praxis exhales the softest of sounds, low-pitched and breathy. Ethos can feel its warmth against his cheek. “Ethos,” Praxis says, his name barely above a whisper. Like Praxis doesn’t want to admit that this is a blow to his pride. Like he doesn’t want to say  _please—I need you_  because he's afraid it'll make him look weak. “You don’t—”  
  
“I know.” Ethos beams and takes the razor from his hands anyway. “But I want to.”  
  
Ethos wants a lot of things, things he knows he can’t have. Miles of red tape and regulations remind him of that very painful fact. Helping Praxis shave because his depth perception is off—that he can do. Even though it won’t mean what Ethos wants it to mean or stretch beyond the boundaries of what Praxis considers partnership. Ethos is being selfish and myopic, and this can only end in bloodshed—most likely his own, but he knows that already. It’s a forgone conclusion. You can’t feed a stray dog and not expect to get attached.   
  
Praxis stands as still as a statue, only the slightest bit of movement due to his choppy breathing. His chest expands and contracts rhythmically as he stares down at Ethos, waiting patiently for him to finish wiping off the blade. “You really don’t have to,” he reminds, trying to give Ethos one last opening. “This isn’t something you have to do.”  
  
Unfortunately for Praxis, Ethos already earned his degree in shouldering unnecessary responsibility. With a minor in masochism.   
  
“If you keep talking, I might end up taking off more than just stubble,” Ethos jokes.  
  
The first pass of the blade goes through the cream smoothly. Ethos wipes off the razor and then dives right back in for round two, this time angling downwards so that he can get all the spots Praxis missed near the base of his jaw. He has to stand on his tiptoes to get every nook and cranny and in the process Ethos doesn’t realize just how close he’s gotten, nose practically bumping against Praxis’ chin. The temperature on the thermostat reads seventy-five but Ethos swears it’s twenty degrees hotter than that. Otherwise his shirt wouldn’t be sticking like glue to his sweaty skin.   
  
Ethos places his left hand against Praxis’ clean-shaven cheek and uses his thumb to anchor himself steady, and then continues on, finishing the other side as thoroughly as he did the first.   
  
Praxis obeys every command Ethos gives him, moving his head up, down, left, or right depending on the direction Ethos drags the blade. When it’s all done, Ethos places the razor on top of the towel and admires his handiwork. There’s a few nicks and scratches from before, but Praxis looks just as handsome as ever, his skin a bit smoother, too. It feels soft beneath Ethos’ fingertips as he traces nonsensical patterns with the pads of them, until he realizes what he’s doing and jerks back like kid who’s touched his mother’s hot curling iron. Praxis hasn’t burned him, but his hands sting just the same. His first instinct is to submerge them in the sink, hoping the water will wash his embarrassment away.  
  
Ethos settles for balling them into the front of his shirt. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The back of his neck’s on fire, too.   
  
Praxis licks his lips and nods. His skin looks flushed, probably because of the heat or from his quick morning shower. “No, that was…”   
  
Praxis swallows and Ethos watches the way his adam’s apple bobs. Ethos chews his tongue to keep from accidentally vocalizing his appreciation.   
  
“Thank you, Ethos. I guess that’s something else I couldn’t have done without you.” Praxis laughs and scratches the back of his head. One hundred and twenty-nine.   
  
It’s infectious, the laugh and Praxis’ nervous habit. “You would’ve gotten it eventually,” he comforts. “After you carved off a few more chunks.”   
  
Praxis smirks. “Yes, well, I’m glad you intervened before I turned myself into sliced deli meat. You didn’t have to. Really.” He’s so uncomfortably close now that Ethos can smell the clean scent of his soap.   
  
The sink digs into his back. He’s backed into a corner with nowhere to run, Praxis looming over him, taller than any skyscraper he’s seen back on Earth. Ethos’ knees wobble worse than when he’d stepped out of the  _Tiberius_  for the first time.   
  
“I mean it, though. It’s a bitch to shave with one eye, and I’m too proud for my own good. If it hadn’t been for you I would’ve cut something more important than my chin. So, really, thank you. For stepping in.”  
  
Praxis shuffles closer. Their bare toes touch. There’s significantly less distance between them now, close enough to swap body heat and spit if Praxis leaned down a few inches. And for one insane, hallucinogenic minute Ethos actually believes that Praxis wants to kiss him. There’s this look in his eye that might mean what Ethos wants it to mean, but then Ethos thinks about it and realizes just how delusional that thought is. Praxis is an impossible, far away dream, as unattainable as galactic peace. So Ethos ignores just how badly he  _wants_  by opening his mouth to say something humorous.  
  
“I guess I couldn’t help myself. There’s no sense in ruining a perfectly good face!”  
  
The joke flops like a dead fish between them, lifeless and cold. He blames the time and the heat and his own stupidity. Praxis’s mouth hangs open, like he’s about to say something but can’t because there really isn’t anything he  _can_  say.   
  
So Ethos jumps on his flub before Praxis has a chance to. “Ah, well, I’m going to go back to sleep!” he rushes out in one big breath, words slurring together. “Goodnight! I mean morning!”  
  
He may have set the record for fastest bunk bed climbing ever. And the speed with which Ethos pulled the sheets over his head to help bury himself in his own metaphorical grave may have broken the sound barrier, too.   
  
Praxis carries on with his routine, though it takes him ten minutes longer than usual for him to finish and he’s going to be late by the time he walks out the door. Ethos knows this because he smells the scent of Praxis’ generic aftershave floating up toward him at 06:10 and not 06:00.  
  
When he’s finally gone, Ethos pokes his head out and groans, digging the heels of his palms into his tired eyes.   
  
His stomach’s doing somersaults and backflips and an entire gymnastic routine, to the point where Ethos can’t fall back to sleep without wanting to hurl. And he actually does fifteen minutes later, cheek resting against the cool porcelain of their toilet as he throws up yesterday’s dinner down the drain.   
  
He splashes water on his face and quickly brushes his teeth, scraping the taste of bile off his tongue in counterclockwise strokes.   
  
Ethos climbs back into bed and places a hand against his jackrabbit heart, the quick  _thump thump_  pulsing beneath his palm.   
  
And then he thinks about Praxis and the slight curve of his lips. The soft texture of his skin. The sharp angles of his jaw.   
  
And how he actually wanted him to—   
  
Ethos dry heaves.   
  
And races back to the toilet.   
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
There’s nothing worse than waking up in a puddle of your own drool. Except, of course, waking up in a puddle of someone  _else’s_. Thankfully, that’s not the case here because Ethos knows what his own saliva feels like shellacked to his chin. He’s fallen asleep in it enough times this week to recognize the consistency.  
  
Ethos doesn’t mean to stay late, at least not intentionally. But then he thinks about confronting Praxis and having to explain why he’d practically dived into his sheets just to get away from him and the kind of almost kiss thing that was sort of maybe going to happen, and his stomach free falls, plummeting all the way down toward his shoes until they’re too heavy to move.   
  
That’s what keeps him from going back to the bunk. And Ethos feels guilty for steering clear. He really does. But just imagining how “the talk” might go down (if it ever did—which it won’t if Ethos can successfully build a hammock under his desk at the lab) makes him want to hurl all over his keyboard.   
  
So Ethos occupies himself with more work than he can handle. Translating and compiling Colteron messages, volunteering for radar duty on the bridge, even pulling all-nighters repairing the  _Tiberius_  which really doesn’t need anymore tweaking at this point. The ship’s in tip top shape. Except for the navigator’s chair. Which is going to need a few modifications. It’s about as comfortable as a pile of rocks. Ethos regrets sleeping two nights in a row on it. His back’s killing him.  
  
His strategy works fairly well for the first six and a half days.  
  
Until Praxis spots him eating shepherd's pie in the mess hall with Abel during lunch near the tailed of day seven. Ethos had accidentally met Praxis’ gaze (after sinking so low in his seat a few people had started staring) and then bolted like a horse out of a starting gate, leaving everything behind: mashed potatoes, datapad, and, regrettably, Abel.   
  
That’s been the closest call yet, beating out that time he’d gone back to the bunk for a quick shower while Praxis was still sleeping. It’s a miracle Praxis hadn’t woken up when he’d accidentally knocked over the shampoo bottle.  
  
“You’re avoiding him,” Deimos says. Or, rather, insinuates.   
  
He shoots Ethos a pointed glare that could probably mean just about anything, but somehow Ethos interprets Deimos’ deadpan expression to mean  _that_  and he takes offense because Ethos is not avoiding Praxis. He is tactfully,  _coincidentally_ , missing him. There’s a difference. The fact that Ethos knows Praxis’ entire schedule only helps marginally.  
  
Ethos sputters, chokes, and guffaws. “I am not! I’ve just been keeping busy, that’s all. We’re in the middle of a war, you know. We’ve all got responsibilities. I’m sure he understands. It’s not like we need to see each other all the time. He probably wants some space, anyway. That bunk’s too cramped for two people.”  
  
Deimos plays with his switchblade, unconvinced.  _You’re doing what he did three months ago_.  
  
“N-no!” He’s glad there’s no one else on the observation deck at the moment because his voice really does carry in here when he shouts.   
  
Deimos sighs.   
  
“I-I mean, not really. I guess. I don't know…” Ethos slumps against the railing in defeat and stares out the window. They’re passing through a large gas nebula to get to the next rendezvous point. On the other side of the glass, there aren’t any stars, just his own reflection and Ethos can't stand to look at that.   
  
Okay, so, maybe he  _is_  avoiding Praxis a teensy tiny bit. So what? This is for the best. There’s a 99.9% chance Praxis is going to request for reassignment anyway so, really, if Ethos can keep this up for the entirety of the war (however long that is), then there’s nothing to worry about and everything’s going to be a-okay.   
  
Except everything isn’t and Ethos feels sicker than he did when he was face down in the toilet. Or it might just be the ship. It feels like they’re drifting faster than usual.  
  
_You should talk to him._  Only slightly ironic coming from the guy who doesn’t.   
  
Ethos groans. “He’ll eat me alive.”  
  
Deimos smirks suggestively.   
  
“N-not that way!” God, his cheeks couldn’t be any redder.   
  
Deimos clicks his tongue in disappointment.   
  
“Anyways, I can’t talk to him. It’s not that simple,” Ethos explains, trying his best to sound convincing.   
  
Apparently Deimos isn’t buying his excuse because he’s glaring again, this time a bit harder, as if saying:  _Yes, yes it is. Now stop stalling and go. You’re starting to smell_. He pinches the bridge of his nose for emphasis.   
  
“I don’t smell!” Ethos whiffs under his arm just to make sure and—oh. There’s a slight funk. Coming from his pits. It’s disgusting. “That much…” he amends.   
  
Deimos shakes his head disapprovingly. “Go,” he says, actually speaking this time.   
  
Ethos groans. “Fine. Only because my hair’s getting oily and not because you told me to.”  
  
Deimos keeps smirking that obnoxiously smug  _I told you so_  smile that Ethos has become all too familiar with these past eight days. It’s almost as if he  _knows_  what Ethos has been trying to hide so desperately. Like Deimos can effortlessly flip through the pages of his life and find the chapter titled “Praxis” written in large, bold-weighted font, sixteen consecutive question marks following. Ethos hasn’t told anyone, Deimos included, about his and Praxis’ momentary lapse in sanity. There are rules in place against that sort of thing and Ethos doesn’t like breaking those.  
  
No one says anything about his body odor on the lift (thank goodness because he would have died on the spot if someone had) and Ethos shuffles out, heading straight for his shared room.   
  
Considering it’s the middle of the day, Praxis shouldn’t be there. He’s either in the mess hall eating lunch or doing what Praxis told him the fighters do on the lower decks (Ethos shudders at the memory), meaning their bunk is empty and there won’t be any unfortunate, awkward run-ins. If everything goes according to plan, he can sneak in, take a quick shower, and then leave with a fresh pair of underwear.   
  
And then Ethos remembers:   
  
It’s Wednesday.  
  
And that he’s made a horrible mistake.  
  
There Praxis stands, near their sink, towel in hand as he dries off his face and arms. Herbert sits on the counter beside him, thoroughly watered, leaves glistening. Praxis must’ve soaked him, which is all wrong because this week it’s—   
  
Oh.   
  
It’s his turn.   
  
Praxis turns so that his back is facing Ethos. He’s not wearing his eyepatch.   
  
“Oh, Ethos. I didn’t expect you to be here. You haven’t been back to the bunk in a while. Is Cook working you guys to the bone?”  
  
His voice sounds more strained than a guilty teenager’s, as if trying to hide something scandalous from his metaphorical parents. Except Ethos hasn’t walked in on Praxis smuggling smokes or jerking it to porn (oh  _God_ ). Ethos is just standing in the doorway, less than fifteen feet away from Praxis’ slightly disfigured face. His eyepatch’s drying on the dresser. It probably got wet in the process of watering Herbert. Praxis and delicate might as well be antonyms.  
  
Ethos wrings his hands and clears his throat. “Uh, something like that,” he lies. “Hey, um, thanks for, u-uh, you know, taking care of Herbert. And stuff. I was kind of—” he scratches the back of his head “—busy. I guess.”  
  
Praxis’ laugh bounces off the metal wall. It’s hollow. “We’re partners, right? It’s fine, Ethos. Don’t worry about it. What you should be worrying about is yourself. You haven’t been sleeping here a lot, have you?”  
  
The question sounds more like an accusation, one Ethos can’t exactly deny. “Ah. No. I forget to. Sometimes.”   
  
He doesn’t, but it sounds a whole lot nicer than  _I can’t look you in the eye right now, so please stop asking me to_. Not that Praxis can, either. He’s still facing the wall, trying to pat down his face as casually as he can without drawing attention to the fact that he’s so incredibly terrified Ethos might catch a glimpse of his scar.   
  
“Try not to overdo it or you’ll end up in a medical. A lot of navigators have been going in and out lately due to stress. So take it easy, all right? You’re not the only one on board who can fly this ship.” Praxis sighs and then smiles. Ethos can feel it all the way from where he’s standing. “And besides, you haven’t finished that book yet! You left off at a cliffhanger! I’ve been dying to know what comes next.”  
  
“You haven’t read ahead?”  
  
“No,” Praix replies. “Not without you.”   
  
His stomach’s doing those somersaults again and Ethos maybe wants to hurl. “Praxis...I’m…”   
  
Sorry. Scared. Humiliated. Worried. A million different words could adequately describe how he’s feeling right about now, but they’re just that: words. And Ethos knows how empty and meaningless they can be. So he swallows that sentence and instead forces himself to move, closer, one step at a time, until he’s grabbing a fistful of Praxis’ black tank top. He’s never felt his heart beat so fast before in his life.  
  
Praxis goes rigid and bows his head. “Ethos, what—”  
  
“You don’t have to keep hiding it from me.” His fingers tighten. “The scar. It’s not going to chase me away, you know.”  
  
“It’s hideous,” Praxis warns, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to see it.”   
  
The invisible snakes in Ethos’ gut twist and twine up into his chest. “But I want to. If...that’s okay?”   
  
Praxis doesn’t say anything in response for a while.   
  
And then grunts a monosyllabic noise of consent thirty seconds later. Ethos takes that as a yes.   
  
He grabs Praxis’ elbow and slowly turns him so that they’re face to face.   
  
What Ethos sees doesn’t shock or repulse him. Where Praxis’ left eye should be there is scar tissue, the outline of it a deep, bruised red denoting where exactly the  _Tiberius_ ’ inner plating had slashed him during the explosion. His eyelid has been sewn shut to protect the wound. There’s nothing monstrous about it.   
  
Some people walk away with a lot less and Praxis probably considers himself lucky that he only lost one eye and not his whole life, but the constant reminder that he’s disfigured and partially disabled must eat away at him every time he wakes up and looks at himself in the mirror. He’s still getting used to some everyday tasks he’d mechanically breezed through before and it’s clunky sometimes, more robotic and stilted than effortless and  _human_ , but Praxis tries. So hard. And Ethos only wants to help. Because they’re partners. And that’s what partners do.   
  
Except lately Ethos hasn’t been a very good one and he wishes he could go back in time to tell himself that he doesn’t need to think so hard about it. Any of it. Because if there’s anything Ethos has learned from these past three months, it’s that being with Praxis comes as natural as breathing. And starving himself of something so important, so essential to his being, might just be the dumbest thing Ethos has ever done yet.  
  
“So,” Praxis exhales, scratching the back of his head. An even two hundred. “Are you having second thoughts?” He laughs and it makes Ethos feel sad. “It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Sometimes I can’t even be bothered to wipe the fog off the mirror after I’m done showering in the morning. Just looking at myself makes me queasy.”  
  
“No. Why would I?” Ethos frowns and shakes his head. “The only thing that’s disgusting is how you can still look so handsome after something like that.” He cracks a smile when Praxis looks down. “It’s not fair.” And this time when the words blurt out, Ethos doesn’t try and take them back. Because Deimos was right. He’s thinking too hard.  
  
His hand moves on autopilot before Ethos can stop himself, palm cupping the sharp angle of Praxis’ jaw. The stubble’s grown back. He needs to shave again. His thumb traces uneven circles into Praxis’ rough skin and for a moment Ethos forgets that his actions have consequences.   
  
The next five minutes will play out something like this, if he’s lucky: Praxis will shove him onto the floor, recoil in horror, and beg Commander Bering for immediate reassignment. It’s what any sensible fighter would do. Ethos knows he’s crossing an invisible line here and that it’s his own damn fault for blurring fantasy and reality, but even Background Character #12 falls in love with Superman eventually.  
  
Praxis’ larger hand circles Ethos’ wrist, stopping his wandering thumb dead in the water. “What did you say?” he breathes out, words barely above a whisper.  
  
Ethos swallows the erratic  _thump thump_  of his heart. “I said—” his mouth turns to cotton “—it’s not fair how you're still so handso—”  
  
Praxis cuts him off not with words, but his mouth.   
  
And this time, Ethos doesn't dive for his bedsheets or shy away from the fact that Praxis wants to kiss him. That Praxis is  _actually_  kissing him and that this real and not some daydream he's shamefully envisioned.   
  
It's chaste and Ethos’ lips are too chapped to make this moment storybook perfect, but Praxis’ mouth is warm and inviting, a slow burn that tingles every inch of his body before settling in the pit of his stomach where it swells and blossoms into an all-consuming fire. Ethos surges upward so that he's holding onto Praxis’ broader shoulders and balancing on his tiptoes, angling their mouths because Praxis is too tall and has to crane his neck uncomfortably. That's when the gears click into place and Ethos moans unintentionally.   
  
Praxis pulls away and stares down at him like he's expecting an explanation.  
  
Ethos blushes.“Ah, u-um, sorry. I didn't—”  
  
His back suddenly hits the counter and Ethos is being lifted, ass landing on top of their vanity so that he's half-sitting, half-laying on the towel and the wet sink. Praxis’ hands squeeze the backs of his thighs, urging Ethos to wrap them around his hips.   
  
“I told you to stop apologizing so much,” Praxis says, voice thick as his fingers dig in, blunt nails scraping against the thin cotton of his pants. Ethos’ legs start to tremble and his head fogs. “You have nothing to be sorry for, so stop trying to take everything back.” Praxis smiles and slots their bodies together, pelvises flush. Ethos’ hands fly right back to his shoulders. His synapses spark, little jolts of electricity as Praxis nips along Ethos’ jaw, mumbling, “Because I won’t let you”, so soft and quiet it sounds more like a confession. And maybe it is.   
  
It's Ethos who pushes forward, taking Praxis by surprise, swallowing the strangled noise he makes in another searing kiss.   
  
There’s a bit of tongue this time and Ethos groans at the taste, at how wet and slick it feels inside his mouth when they start getting into it. Praxis kisses like he’s starved, so desperate and hungry for Ethos’ lips and Ethos groans because he knows when they separate and look in the mirror, he’ll have some explaining to do if anyone asks why they’re so puffy and swollen. But he shelves that concern in an empty corner of his mind just as Praxis cups the back of his head to deepen the kiss, alternating between gentle sucks and bites, panting into Ethos’ open mouth.   
  
Their lazy pace escalates into something more feverish. Praxis’ groin bumps into Ethos’ own and Ethos squeaks because Praxis is  _hard_  and the unexpected brush against his thigh makes him jump. High enough to knock Herbert and himself over the edge.   
  
Praxis’ freakishly fast reflexes manage to save both their plant and Ethos from potential death.   
  
Ethos slumps against the mirror and tries to calm his racing heart. “Thanks,” he huffs. He’s breathless, from the near-fall and the kissing. “That’s twice now you’ve saved me from brain damage.”  
  
Praxis places Herbert on the dresser and laughs. The bulge in his pants has died down a bit, mood effectively ruined. Ethos is okay with that because he doesn’t think he’s ready for anything more than a little tongue, too virginal and scared of moving below the belt at this stage. The fact that he can kiss Praxis in real life and not just in his daydreams still hasn’t sunk in yet.   
  
“I told you I’d probably end up killing him,” Praxis says, settling back between Ethos’ thighs, running his warm palms up and down them, sweet.   
  
Ethos smirks. “I think that was on both of us this time. A joint effort.”  
  
Praxis smiles and Ethos thinks maybe he’ll start counting those instead. “Are you saying we almost murdered our adoptive tree?”  
  
“Accidentally!” Ethos raises his hands in defense and then looks at their bonsai mournfully. “Sorry, Herbert! We’ll make sure to move you next time.” Ethos pauses, replaying that last bit. “Next time?” he says again, a little stunned that there might actually be one. That Praxis  _wants_  there to be one, too, judging by the look on his face.  
  
“Or now,” Praxis amends through a grin, leaning down until their foreheads bump.   
  
“Or now,” Ethos repeats, tentatively winding his arms around Praxis’ neck.  
  
There’s no rush this time and Praxis is careful not to get ahead of himself, almost cautious in comparison to before. Five, maybe ten minutes go by. He should really look at the clock, but bridge duty doesn’t seem all that important right now. Praxis leans down again and their teeth clack. They both pull back and laugh, and then try again. Ethos is nineteen and inexperienced which kind of explains his teenage fumbling, but Praxis isn’t all that coordinated either, and Ethos wonders if it’s due to nerves. Praxis is six years older. He shouldn’t be so jittery. This isn’t the first time he’s probably swapped spit. The fact that they’re both a little scatter-brained excites him.  
  
They only stop because Ethos’ lips are too sore to keep going, red and puffy and thoroughly bitten.   
  
Praxis is happy enough to nip along Ethos’ throat, but pauses mid-suck to pull away, nose wrinkling against the light mark he’s made. “Ethos,” he says, measured. “When was the last time you took a shower?”  
  
And now Ethos wishes he’d suffered head trauma. “Uhhh.” His brain short-fuses. “W-why?”  
  
Praxis frowns. “Because you smell like old sweat and the chicken tikka masala they served in the mess hall two days ago.”  
  
“O-oh.” Ethos laughs and fluffs his greasy hair. “I’ve, um, been busy?”  
  
“Busy? Doing what?” Praxis deadpans.   
  
“Oh, you know, navigator things…”  
  
“Navigator things.” He frowns. “Like what?”  
  
“Like translating.”  
  
“Translating?”  
  
“Translating.”  
  
“And avoiding me?”  
  
“And avoi—no!”   
  
Ethos slaps his hands over his mouth.  
  
Praxis laughs. “You’re a terrible liar.” And then grimaces. “Who really needs to take a shower.”  
  
The tips of Ethos’ ears burn. “Well maybe you should join me if you’re so hellbent on my personal hygiene!” Where that came from, Ethos doesn’t know, but the look on Praxis’ face might have made his own embarrassment worth it. Temporarily. The implication of what he’s just insinuated sinks in and Ethos panics, flustered. He puts on a brave face and hopes Praxis won’t call his bluff.  
  
“Join you…?” It’s oddly cute how he can’t seem to wrap his head around Ethos’ lame attempt at flirting.   
  
It’s even cuter how Praxis’ chest flushes in embarrassment, too. “You don’t have to,” Ethos mumbles under his breath, stomach flip-flopping. If it doesn’t calm down, he’s going to end up puking into the sink.   
  
Praxis grips Ethos’ hips and lifts, forcing Ethos to wrap his legs around his waist as he moves them away from the counter and toward their small excuse for a bathroom. “But what if I want to?” he says, taking the bait.   
  
Ethos scrambles for purchase, nauseatingly turned on. “Then we should probably turn Herbert around so that he’s facing the wall.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t want him to see.”  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
Today’s lunch is fried rice with a side of nutritious protein paste.   
  
Ethos shoves his green, goopy paste way off to the side and pretends it doesn’t even exist.   
  
“So,” Abel starts, poking at his tray. “You’ve been smiling a lot lately. Did something happen?”  
  
The gargantuan hickey hiding under his collar could probably explain everything Ethos can’t, without the use of words. But there are some things about Praxis no one else needs to know. Like how he always sleeps with one hand wormed inside Ethos’ t-shirt, palm flat against the plane of his stomach, stroking Ethos’ invitingly soft and warm skin. Or how Praxis had blushed like a schoolgirl the first time Ethos'd said the word ‘cock’. Or how he laces their fingers in secret whenever they take the lift.   
  
But Ethos doesn’t mention any of these things to Abel while they eat because he never did like sharing.   
  
And because Abel doesn’t need to know.  
  
Some things are best kept hidden, away from prying eyes.  
  
Like when Praxis corners him in the cargo bay and steals no less than fifteen kisses.  
  
Getting here was just as simple as caring for their tree. You can’t smother it with sunlight or drown its roots in water. Herbert’s a bonsai. Not a tulip. Or a rose. And there’s no point in wishing he were anything else. Their tree is perfect just the way that it is.   
  
Ethos always knew this, but he’s glad that Praxis does now, too.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
“Wait, I wasn’t done with that page yet. Go back.”  
  
“Here?”  
  
“Yeah. Give me a minute? Reading with one eye’s a bitch, too.”  
  
Ethos waits until Praxis squeezes his elbow to turn to the next page. They’re four away from finishing the novel.   
  
When Praxis gets through the last sentence of the book, Ethos turns the datapad off and places it on the dresser. Well, that didn’t end the way he thought it would. He reclines against Praxis’ chest and mulls over the ending while Praxis pets the bare skin of his thighs.   
  
“I never expected it to be the judge,” Ethos muses aloud, still thrown for a loop. “I mean, it made sense, but I never caught on that it was him and not the doctor.”  
  
Praxis nods in agreement. “I thought it was the woman, that governess. She was crazy enough to kill all those people. It was a good twist, though. Definitely not cliché.”  
  
Ethos turns his head to stare up at Praxis, smirking. “I thought you liked those,” he says through a laugh.   
  
Praxis spreads his legs further apart, letting Ethos settle more comfortably between them. “I do, but I’m always willing to try something different.” He runs a hand through Ethos’ curls and sighs. “What I find stranger is that you’re really into these mystery novels. That’s the last genre I’d consider boring or safe.”  
  
“Well—” Ethos twists around so that he can wind his arms around Praxis’ shoulders, chin resting on his chest, staring into his eye “—I don’t mind being surprised, as long as it’s a good one.”  
  
Praxis snorts and rolls them onto their sides. It’s getting late and Ethos has to be up in six hours, but he’s wide awake, sandwiched between the wall and Praxis’ body, squirming against the sheets.  
  
“Do you want to read another one? Tomorrow?” he asks into the crook of Praxis’ neck.  
  
Praxis yawns. “Is it as good as the last one?”  
  
“No,” Ethos starts, as he starts to drift off. “It’s even better.”

**Author's Note:**

> i just really like this pairing. they're fluffier than cotton candy.
> 
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